Say it Again
by naughtynyx
Summary: Molly didn't know what time it was, only that it must be the wee hours of the morning. Many hours and buckets of tears since that horrible phone conversation. /After the events of TFP, Sherlock explains things to Molly./


Molly was curled up on the sofa, her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, her hands covering her ears in attempt to block out the banging on her door. She didn't know what time it was, only that it must be the wee hours of the morning. Many hours and buckets of tears since that horrible phone conversation.

"Molly, I know you're there! Please, open the door!"

No matter how hard she pressed her palms against the sides of her head to drowned out the sound, it was still no match for the stentorian voice of Sherlock Holmes. Molly dropped her hands with a frustrated cry, picking up a pillow and chucking it across the room.

"You know I can just come in anyway. I have a key after all. And even if I didn't…"

Molly sat up and turned her head to glare at the door, teeth clenched. She wanted to tell him to go ahead and try to come in. That she would phone the police if he did. But she doubted the threat would do much to deter him. Or that it would even do any good if she did phone the police—his brother was the British Government after all.

Molly sighed, defeat weighing her shoulders down. She looked up at the ceiling and shook her head before taking a deep breath and rising to her feet.

When she opened the door, Molly was taken aback by how awful Sherlock looked. Not awful in the way that she had seen him days ago, and several times before that, when his body had been flooded with drugs to the point of near death. No, this was different. He looked broken, vulnerable. The way she'd only ever seen him once before. The night when he had told her that he was going to die. The night he had uttered different three little words that had rocked her world off its axis.

 _You do count._

Molly slammed her eyes closed, fingers curling at her side, the nails biting into her palms. Those words ringing false in her memory now.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" It took great effort for her to force the words out, to reopen her eyes and look at the man before her. Even after everything she still had to shove down the urge to want to comfort him, to ask him if he was okay. She crossed her arms over her chest, willing the blood in her veins to turn to ice. "What do you want?" she demanded again, imbuing her voice with as much coolness as she could muster.

She watched him blink several times at the moisture shining in his eyes. "Molly, I…" He took a step forward and Molly stiffened.

"No," she said, holding up a hand and standing firmly in his path. "I opened the door for you, I didn't say you could come inside."

Sherlock's head dropped with a sigh. "All right," he murmured. "I understand."

"Good," Molly replied. "Now you have about a minute to tell me whatever it is you came here to say before I slam the door in your face for good."

"Very well," Sherlock said. "But it's quite a long story."

"You better speak quickly then," Molly told him, not giving an inch.

"All right." Sherlock took a deep breath and then told her everything.

"So…is…is there a bomb in my flat still?" Molly asked Sherlock some time later, having allowed him in the flat after his confession. The two of them were now sat at opposite ends of the sofa.

"No. No, there never was. Eurus just wanted me to believe there was. Or rather, she wanted to prove that emotions could cloud my judgment enough for me to believe there was. And I did." He looked across the gap between them and into Molly's eyes. "Believe me, Molly, had I not been convinced that your life was in danger I wouldn't have…You have to know I wouldn't…"

Molly watched the struggle play out on Sherlock's face. He screwed his eyes shut tight, pressed his lips together until they were a hard white line.

"Seeing you hurting that way, knowing that it was because of me, it…" The tension released from his expression suddenly, and his eyes were once again on hers. "I think it broke me in a way. Especially once I realised that it had been for nothing. That I put you through that when there was no real threat." He abruptly rose to his feet and began pacing the length of the sofa. "If only I hadn't let sentiment blind me to what was obvious." He stopped, letting out a mirthless laugh. "If only I hadn't been blind to the sentiment in the first place."

Molly stood after a moment, brow furrowed as she stared at Sherlock's back. He'd gone quiet. "Sherlock?"

He wheeled around taking Molly by surprise. A small gasp escaped her lips before she could bite it back. "She really is beyond remarkable, my sister. Getting people to tell secrets they didn't even know they'd been keeping from themselves. Getting _me_ to."

Molly's lips parted, head shaking slowly from side to side. "Sherlock what are you saying? Are you saying that you…"

"Yes," Sherlock answered despite Molly not finishing the question. "Yes."

Molly sucked in a breath, feeling dizzy. The ground beneath her feet was spinning too fast. Had Sherlock Holmes just admitted that he…

No. He hadn't. He hadn't admitted anything. Not really. Not irrefutably, anyway.

And Molly needed that. She needed to hear him say it, unequivocally.

"Say it again," she demanded. "Tell me. But not like before. Don't just say it like you mean it, but say it only _if_ you mean it."

Molly held her breath, heart beating wildly in her chest as Sherlock strode toward her, moving seemingly slower than he should have with those long legs of his. He stopped once he was right in front of her, mere inches of space between them, his eyes firmly locked on hers.

His voice was deep and clear when he said it, and devastatingly earnest. "I love you, Molly Hooper."

Molly clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the joyful sob that wrenched from her throat. "And you…you really mean it?" Molly asked once she'd calmed down a bit. "Really and truly. This isn't some sort of game?"

"No games," Sherlock assured. He took her face in his hands, a smile curving his lips and crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Molly Hooper, I love you," he repeated. "I love you. I love you. I love you. I—"

"Oh, shut up." Molly cut him off by throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him down to her, crashing her lips against his.

"Right," Sherlock remarked, clearing his throat and looking a little dazed once the kiss ended. "So, I'm glad we have that settled then. I suppose it's your turn now."

"My turn?"

"Well, I've said it. I believe it is customary for you to return the sentiment."

"But you already know," Molly said. "You've always known."

"Actually, no," Sherlock replied. "I don't think I did. I don't think I fully understood just how much you cared. Or what that meant. Not until today. Besides, I think I'd quite like hearing you say it–while not under extreme duress that is."

Molly smiled. She reached up and touched Sherlock's cheek, thumb stroking over those diamond cheekbones of his. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
